Sticks and Stones
by bkreed
Summary: The group returns from Woodbury with an anguished Daryl. Caryl friendship story.
1. Chapter 1

_A pan of the scenery around the prison showed hoards of walkers wandering aimlessly a ways away from the prison. They dribbled through the streets, crashed into parked cars, and stumbled through the open doors of buildings._

_The buzz of the dead filled the air._

* * *

Rick, Michonne, Glenn, Maggie, and Daryl returned to a silent prison. After the events of the previous night, Daryl was uncharacteristically silent. They hadn't even stayed to see what Merle's fate was, once again, leaving Daryl at a cliffhanger of whether his brother was alive or not.

He blamed Patchy the fucking Pirate.

Carol was up in the guard tower with Axel, pistol shoved into the bum of her crinkled jeans. He'd been flirting with her persistently for the whole previous day; if, "It's not interesting," didn't give him an idea of her feelings, she didn't know what would. After another helpless attempt to bat away his advances, Carol peeped out the window and saw the small group that had left the prison a few days earlier. She couldn't help but light up at the sight of Rick and Daryl.

"They're here!" she beamed, keeping a tight hand on her gun as she made her way down the stairs from the tower. Axel followed like a puppy. "You guys are alive!" Carol was jogging toward them, wary not to catch her feet in any of the holes or bumps in the ground. Her arms opened – more of an, '_Welcome back, nobody died!_' hug when she took in Daryl's depressed aroma, the absence of Oscar, and Glenn's bloodied face.

Rick shook his head.

"We need to get inside first." He acknowledged Carol and Axel with a nod of the head, however. Michonne ensued after him, Daryl taking the rear.

Carol's eyebrows furrowed at his distant stare and scrunched up nose all through the short travel to the main entry of the prison. She opened her mouth to ask, but he'd retorted with a, "Don't start." Carol pursed her lips, arms folding crossly against her chest.

"Too late."

She had stopped walking; the rest of the group continued on (with Axel pestering Rick about Oscar's disappearance). Daryl had stopped behind her, feet planted sourly into the ground. "I said I don't wanna talk about it." His voice wasn't as rough, less gravel embedded into his chords. "I ain't gonna—"

Carol kicked into scolding mode, her voice firm when she spoke next. "Talking helps, Daryl, you know that."

"Why do I gotta tell you?"

"Because I'm here to listen."

That shut him up, but not for long. "I ain't one to talk about my 'feelings' or whatever."

Carol rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the tidbit."

But he continued. "I blame the fucking pirate." Carol cringed at the word choice, but continued to listen. Her arms were comfortably folded against her chest, worn sweater warming her up in the brisk night air. "He kidnapped me. I just—I wanted to just see Merle, y'know?" Daryl blew out a puff of air, bobbing his leg up and down.

"He'd wanted us to kill each other. Wouldn't let us go until at least one of us were dead. The goddamn crowd was cheering us on like some sorta circus freaks. The Dixon brother: see how fucked up we are. And that goddamned blonde from Hershel's farm? Andrea? She was there. Didn't do a damn thing. Didn't come back with us."

Daryl's voice had started to rise, his fist clenching so tightly it was white, noticeable in even the dark cover that engulfed them. "Callin' Merle a traitor! A fuckin' traitor—encouraging him to kill me, me to kill him! We'd been through shit, that's a given, but that ain't right! I know Merle can be a dick, but so can I, so—"

Carol continued to listen, nestling herself against the cold concrete of the tower. She'd slid to the ground, clear blue eyes wary and full of pity. "Daryl, you don't have to finish…"

"Yeah I do, _Carol._ Because you wanna know what Merle did? You wanna know, because you were so _goddamned persistent _on gettin' me to talk_? _You wanna know every last detail about lives that don't involve you?

"He took himself out. He got this stupid extension arm thing—cut off his own hand y'know, and now it's a blade. Jabbed himself in the gut."

Daryl's eyes were full of hatred now, voice over the top and eyes full of heat.

"And I ain't got an idea what happened to him! I left—Rick caused a riot, comin' in and scaring the flying shit outta everyone and we escaped." Daryl inhaled; a shaky, anxious breath.

"My brother was left again! Merle was abandoned, _again_! He could be dead, he could be a walker, he could be gettin' tortured by the Mayor or whatever the hell he called himself but I ain't got no idea because we're here, and he's there."

By this point Daryl was next to Carol on the wall, hands braced behind him as his head flopped down to his chest. Soaked hair flopped into his face, palms butting into the concrete behind him. It tore up his skin.

Carol knew he was terrified. Daryl was in anguish and he blamed himself for Merle getting left behind.

"Daryl, it's not your fault."

He didn't reply.

It took Carol a moment to realize he was crying.

"How ain't it?" He looked up at her, and in that second she saw the little brother trapped inside of him; the scared, heartbroken child hidden under the entire rough and gruff exterior.

"It was Merle's decision—and don't tell me that you could have stopped him because, you know what? Merle can make his own choices. He chose to do what he did. But he's also as tough as nails. He cut off his own hand and survived long enough.

"Daryl, please don't blame yourself."

Daryl rammed his hand into the wall once again before sliding down the wall, grimy fingers rising to cover his face. Carol knew she'd hit his breaking point and sat down with him.

Carol listened to him breathe. At first it was jagged, harsh inhales but as the time went by he calmed down.

They sat in silence for the remainder of the night.


	2. Chapter 2

When Carol looked back, sleeping outside, back straight up, in the cold harshness that blanketed them was a bad idea.

Her bones—already frail from lack of healthy nutrition—ached when she woke up the next morning; her back slowly popping each of the vertebrae as she stood. Daryl was missing, but that had no reason to frighten her. She assumed he was watching guard near the sleeping unit or showering. Drowning himself in his thoughts and a storm of cold rain.

Carol yawned, cringed (she was still unused to the repetitive sour taste lingering on her taste buds), and ambled up the stairs to the corridors where everyone else slept. Judging by the sliver of the sun peeping through the horizon, it was still early and everybody would still be asleep.

She was proven correct as she found her way to the group with another creak of the shoulders. Gosh, she sounded old, with her screaming bones.

The group Carl had found in the depths of the jail was huddled together like birds, the teenage boy named Ben shaking against the arms of their seemed leader, Tyreese.

_Poor kid_.

Carol climbed the stairs to approach Rick, who, instead of Daryl, was patrolling the unit. He noticed her with a nod of the head and she returned the gesture with a modest smile. "Been up late?" she asked, folding her arms across her arms again.

Rick nodded, inhaled sharply. "With Daryl sleeping outside and these… newcomers locked away, somebody needed to keep an eye out." The corners of Rick's mouth turned up; despite the smile, he looked exhausted. Dark circles rimmed his eyes and he paused a lot while speaking. "Need to protect Judith and Carl."

"Sorry I wasn't—well, there to take care of Judith. Got distracted last night."

"No, you don't need to, Carol. When I got in, Beth and Hershel were feeding her; she's fine." Rick yawned. "Is Daryl up yet? It was his shift about two hours ago. If he's… unsatisfactory, I can keep going, but—"

Carol's eyebrows furrowed together, lips pursed. "You haven't seen him?"

Rick shook his head.

"I—I thought he went to take a shower or something. He wasn't there when I woke up, so I could assume he was showering or guarding."

"I didn't see him go to the showers. Look, Carol, maybe he just needs some time alone. What happened to him—it got to him," Rick drawled as he stifled a yawn. "He needs to let some steam loose. Give him the day, he'll be back before the sun sets."

Carol nodded. She still wasn't keen on the idea of just waiting for Daryl to show up; last time he'd disappeared for the day he'd been dehydrated, stabbed with an arrow, and shot in the head.

Daryl wasn't the luckiest of men.

"I'll just go… shower. If I see him I'll let you know when I get back."

Rick agreed, leaning on the railing.

"And Rick?" Carol started as she descended the stairs. Rick turned to look at her. "Get some sleep, I'll cover you."

* * *

Daryl heaved through the forest, crossbow thrown onto his back and Carol's knife clenched tightly in his right hand. He didn't bother to hide from the couplet of walkers in front of him—instead, he ran full-fledged at them, arm poised to strike. Tears cascaded down his grimy cheeks, left snail tracks against the dirty skin.

The tears, for once, didn't bother him.

The stench didn't bother him.

The sweat filtering from every pore didn't bother him.

Nothing did.

He drove the knife into the walker's crown; its head split down the middle, rotten stench filling the air. The other was alerted, snarling and waving a handless arm to Daryl.

_Fucking geeks._

Daryl slammed it to the ground. His breaths were jagged as he bashed its head in with his foot.

Blood leaked onto his shoes.

* * *

Carol ran long fingers through her cropped hair, massaging her scalp in the lukewarm water. She hummed a peaceful hymn that echoed over the drizzle of the shower.

Despite the serene surrounding, her heart beat wouldn't settle.

Out of the group, the person she considered herself closest to was Daryl. She was friends with everyone else, talked about their previous lives and stories, but Daryl was the person she found herself drawn to. Eyes lingering after him, never ending praises spilling out of her mouth. He aided her in the attempt to find Sophia. They'd bonded with similar backgrounds—late nights were spent with Carol reminiscing about Ed and their past to Daryl. He listened, but didn't talk about his own.

He was there when she had broken down. He was there to talk to her, and she wished to be that same counselor with him.

Plus, she knew him.

She knew he was an independent man; albeit last night, Daryl would prefer to be by himself. He wasn't alone, but he _was _a loner.

_And he'd be back._

Carol's eyes opened to the flow of water dribbling to an end, but she didn't step out of the barracks. Her breaths became slower, more relaxed.

_He'd be back._

She dressed quickly in a worn tank top and khakis, making her way back to Rick and the group. Rick sighed a breath of relief when he noticed her, head raised high as he found the cell Carl rested in. Carol smiled and took his position on the deck. The cell directly behind her consisted of Glenn and Maggie; Glenn's face was cleaner, although swollen. Hershel must've fixed him up.

She heard Rick's snoring come almost immediately.

Once again, she was alone with her thoughts.

* * *

Daryl hissed at the pain the knife brought—he'd been a complete dipshit and pocketed the knife into his jeans the wrong way. Blade jutting outward, handle hidden in the depths of the denim. Naturally, he'd shoved his hand in, only to react quickly and discover a bleeding gash on his palm.

It wasn't as bad as previous incidents.

He had stampeded through the forest at an alarming rate: he'd left the prison nearly three hours ago and was completely drenched in sweat, a good couple of miles further than what would've been covered if he were walking.

The walkers he had encountered hadn't had much of a say; he simply ripped Carol's knife through their eye socket or jaw and they fell with a heavy thud to the muddy ground.

His shoes were bloody. His shirt was filthy, and his jeans were torn.

Daryl was a mess.

With each stab of a walker, he did it for Merle.

Merle was an asshole, but he was his _brother_. He risked himself to save Daryl's ass—which, to be completely honest, confused the living hell out of Daryl—and they had just left.

The tears from earlier had stopped flowing, but the anger was pounding in his head. Resounding all around him until Daryl could feel the heat reverberating off his skin. White hot flames danced in his vision. More walkers approached him.

Daryl stood his ground. Fingered the knife out of his pocket and wiped the continuous flow of blood onto his shorts.

He waited.

When one got close enough, he held it back at shoulder's distance with his injured hand and killed it.

Daryl was going back to Woodbury.

He ignored the pain that rippled through his palm.

* * *

"Ms. Carol?"

Carol snapped her neck up from the cooing Judith she bounced on her lap. The day had passed unsuccessfully—Daryl was still missing. Axel had been admitted to the cell (with approval by Rick) and advanced with his flirtatious suggestions ("How 'bout we… go back up to the tower?" "My, I sure get cold sleepin' by myself."). Hershel was scavenging to find more medicines to give Glenn. Beth currently stood in front of her, eyes wide and fair hair curled around her ears.

It was almost astounding how she managed to look like an angel even in the worst of conditions.

"I was wondering if I could feed Judith? She hasn't eaten for a while and, well, I was just wondering—" Beth trailed off, smile lingering on her lips. "I have the formula in the bottle and ready."

"Of course you can, dear. Just let me…" Carol stood and handed Judith to Beth once she was sitting down. "And there you go!"

Judith sucked on the bottle hungrily.

Carol grinned at the scene and paraded to Rick, who was confronting Tyreese's group without a sense of caution. Carol intervened during, "You want us to move the mother?" and pulled him away before Ben began protesting.

"Daryl's not back yet."

Rick ran a hand through his hair, scratched his head. "Carol, I know, but—"

"Rick, we need to look for him. Daryl's—when he's angry, he's not completely… he doesn't think things through. He acts on instinct; it's what had gotten him through his childhood. He's not in the vicinity of the prison; when you… disappeared, we knew you were around here so we let you be. But Daryl isn't here, Rick." Carol's voice was hushed, fingers drumming hastily against her hips.

"It's too late to leave now. We don't wanna be out at night."

"We'll leave as soon as the sun rises, then."

"Carol, Daryl's strong." Rick knew he was lying to himself; he'd seen how Daryl had acted back in Woodbury when he discovered the chance that Merle may be there. He'd seen the look in his eyes, the determination he had to see his brother.

"If it was Lori, we'd be searching day and night for her, Rick," Carol retorted, but immediately regretted her decision. Guilt swelled in her throat. "Oh, gosh, Rick, I didn't mean—"

But Rick's eyes had fixed on a point above Carol's head. He nodded slowly, shoulders rising as he inhaled deeply. "You're right.

"We'll leave in the morning."


	3. Chapter 3

Daryl could feel the harsh, _'thump th-thump th-thump,'_ pulsating in his neck. His head hurt; the sun was startlingly bright and he had to squint his eyes to see just a couple feet away from him. His tongue felt thick and the sour smell of sweat gathered on his body- the intake to outtake ratio of liquid was completely out of wack, he figured.

The gash on his hand – unwrapped, as he was too preoccupied to make himself a bandage—it didn't hurt as much as it did previously. He just felt a dull, throbbing pain rather than a sting.

The acrid summer light burned his retinas and the dizzy spells that often encompassed him weren't exactly helpful either. Daryl kept trucking on, pausing for a moment and propping himself up against the rough bark of a tree and waiting for the swimming in his head to cease.

He probably should have told someone his plans. Not Rick, definitely not Rick. If anyone, Carol; he should have woken her up earlier yesterday morning and defined his goal, then set off under the mask of the night sky. When they went to Woodbury last week, they had Michonne directing them one which direction to follow, what paths to mark. Daryl hadn't paid attention much; that was Rick's job.

And now, he had nobody.

He was lost in the goddamned wilderness. Something that would normally pose no harm was now a huge deal with his injured hand and apparent dehydration. His eyes closed—he was extraordinarily tired. He hadn't gotten anything to drink the night they arrived and the Dixon regretted his decisions as every step actually _hurt_.

The low buzz of walkers alerted him from his trance. Daryl shot his eyes, ignoring the rays of the sun, and fumbled for his knife. In the brightness, he could see the silhouettes of at least five walkers bumbling towards him.

He figured he couldn't take them all out, especially in the weak condition he was. Daryl did the one thing he was told never to do when growing up.

He ran from a fight.

* * *

Rick was filling a dusty water bottle Maggie and Glenn had found on their previous raid with some water. The group's meager beginning amount was slowly decreasing and he didn't want to seize the rest of it from the others. Some people would need it more than him, but water was an important part of the human body's nutrition. He had taught Carl back before even Hershel's farm that people may survive three days without water, and three weeks without food; an old rule of thumb.

He'd educated him that, when hungry, the body exerted the energy stored in fat. However, water was dependent on the environment around you and the air would quickly suck the water right out of you, especially if it were in the heat of the day and you were sweating.

Carl took it all into consideration and stopped whining that he was hungry every few hours, instead switching to, "I'm thirsty."

Rick smiled at the pleasant memory—Atlanta and the original group felt like years ago, when in reality it was probably about a year.

Carol appeared behind him, bearing his axe and her own crowbar. She shrugged sheepishly. "My knife disappeared."

Rick's glock was tucked into the back of his jeans but he took the axe willingly. "Not sure I want the gun. The noise—if we run into walkers it'll attract more. I'll carry it but remember: silence is golden." He slung the water bottle over his shoulder. Only one would have to suffice.

"Rick, I've done this before."

"Right, I just—yeah, sorry. You're good with a gun, but blunt weapons are better in the wilderness."

Carol sighed gently and looped the crowbar into her jeans. "Ready?"

"Not much to prepare with."

She agreed and began the trek out of the cells. She had barely gotten a few feet out the door of the corridor when Axel sprang up next to her. He smiled, nodded at her. "Be safe!"

Carol's mind flashed back to before Daryl left for Woodbury with the group—"Stay safe." "Nine lives, remember?" She hoped her response, even if a bit flirtatious was true. And now it was Daryl who needed those nine lives.

"Thanks, Axel," she replied and turned on her foot to officially exit the building with Rick. The man was a bit ahead of her and she jogged across the dewy, unkempt grass to catch up to him. After firmly securing that the gate was locked, they were off.

It took only about ten minutes to find the trail they'd taken the previous week. Carol noticed, licked at her lips, and asked, "So you know where we're heading?"

Rick nodded. "There's really only one place he could be heading." It was unspoken, a taint to the tongue. They both knew it; the group back at the prison knew it. Carol shoved a branch out of her way and stepped around a line of foliage.

"He's going back to Woodbury." It was a statement, not a question. "He wants to go back to the damage and secure his thoughts of Merle." Carol's fingers wrapped around her crowbar tightly. She was already sweating, skin moistening the back of her tank top.

Rick continued to talk. A pearl of sweat dripped from the curve of his nose. "Michonne had described the path to take; certain landmarks that told you if you were on the correct trail. I made sure to listen. I think Daryl was too preoccupied with the chance of seeing his brother again to pay attention, which is understandable. Oscar knew too, but…" He trailed off. Carol understood.

"Gosh, he—he's so instinctive. Daryl just goes with his impulse, not bothering to think about the consequences that may occur if he's not careful. Looking for…" her voice dissipated and she inhaled sharply, "…the baby formula for Judith. Going back to look for Merle—now for a second time, I suppose. I guess that's just how he was brought up."

Rick opened his mouth to speak, but fiercely brought up a hand to quiet Carol, who had finished talking, anyways. He pointed a few meters in front of him. The smell of rotten flesh filled the air and Carol crinkled her nose. She still wasn't used to the stench.

They drew their weapons, poised and ready to attack. However, the lack of noise was what bothered Carol. The walker lay in front of them, liquefied brains and blood oozing from a gap in its crown. Rick sighed out of relief and Carol scrunched her nose up at the juices that flowed; they resembled road kill, and sure smelled like it too.

The two proceeded – with a bit of caution – and continued their conversation with hushed voices. "That's just Daryl's personality and look where it's gotten him. Positive, he's survived the… apocalypse for this long. Negative, he's gotten himself lost on a hunt for his possibly dead brother." Carol was almost surprised at how blunt Rick was about Daryl and Merle's relationship.

"So you think he's dead? Merle, not Daryl."

"I do. When we escaped, there was no would live even if he got out of Woodbury."

* * *

_Merle's arm was shaking._

_It would be his hand, but the vibrations caused in the upper end of his arm allowed for the trembling of the bionic knife situated where the appendage would have been. The top of half of the weapon was covered in slimy blood, red liquid dribbling down the side. His torso was on fire; the air wasn't correctly flowing through to his throat and it was getting harder to breathe._

_When he'd stabbed himself, the crowd went wild. Cheering. The taunts of, "Traitor!" and, "Kill them!" echoed in his mind and the Governor had laughed, pleased with himself. _Everything was going perfectly.

_Daryl looked on with absolute horror as Merle dropped his bloodied arm to his side, the other hand's middle finger raising to flip the Governor off before he dropped to the earth in sheer agony._

_Fuck you._

_Rick had found the perfect time to storm. He had Michonne at his side, both of them wielding firearms. Rick almost casually strode in, gun pointed directly at the man who called himself the Governor's head and yanked the protesting younger Dixon out of the arena. _

_They ran._

_The Governor had got what he wanted. A doomed Dixon._

_That was the last time Daryl Dixon had seen his brother. Angry, bleeding, and smirking._

"_Run, Darylina."_

* * *

Daryl woke with a start. The grass, mere inches away from him, blurred and the throbbing in his head had just gotten worse. He had passed out on the run, tripped over a root and face planted. But he was already out before the any pain was felt.

He sure did feel it now, though. Everything ached. His nose, his hand, his chest. He couldn't swallow—there wasn't enough saliva to absorb. A sharp pain ripped through his forearm and he immediately forced himself to roll over.

He heaved himself over and braced himself for the worst. His heart was thumping ecstatically in his chest, blood coursing heavily though his veins.

Through his hazy vision, all Daryl could see was a gaping, gory vacancy in his arm and the corroded head of a walker gnawing on his forearm.

A raspy, "Shit!" was croaked before Daryl unveiled Carol's knife and plunged the weapon directly into the walker's eye socket. It crunched against the blade of the knife, and the phantom fell to the ground. Daryl blinked blearily at his arm, moan vibrating his vocal chords.

Blood was squirting from free-flowing veins, skin gone. He couldn't see the bone, but flesh and other mangled bits of muscle flaked off onto the grass. The red and green and brown intermingled, creating a mass of destruction. His knife was still clenched into his hand, and Daryl worked solely on instinct as he plunged the knife into the sordid skin just below his elbow.


	4. Chapter 4

At first, the only pain came from the destruction of the bite. The knife sliced into Daryl's skin, blood beading at the seam of the cut. A dull throbbing pulsated as he went deeper until his arm felt as though it were on fire. Daryl grunted a husky, "Fuck," out of sheer pain before inhaling deeply and throwing all of his weight with the blade onto his arm.

The rest of his skin gave way to the knife, blood oozing out as it sank into his arm. Daryl shook his head in an attempt to clear his foggy mind, cursed again. The knife was deep, deep enough to butt against the tender ulna bone. The overwhelming pain and dehydration and spurts of blood that splashed around the grass around him were enough to pop the adrenaline gears. His good arm worked against the bone, sawing surface with the serrated blade of the knife. Daryl kept working; his mind short-circuited, blanked out, all he could feel was the pain. He was working on pure adrenaline.

The next thing he knew, the shredded remnants of his arm lay next to him. The never ending blood flow was at least staunched by the bandana wiped taut across his forearm and Daryl could feel every last nerve screaming, singed and on fire. Daryl's breaths were shallow as quivering fingers grasped for his red rag, hooked through the loop of his jeans. He worked at it with a twitching hand, undoing the knot before it was finally unwrapped.

He moved quickly to wrap the stump with the dirty rag –better than nothin', right? – before the oncoming dizziness either caused him to faint or he held onto consciousness. White hot pain nearly blinded him as the rag chafed against the flesh. He tied it at the top. Blood easily drenched the scrap, deepening the original red to a blackened auburn.

Daryl, despite the sheer agony enveloping him, pushed himself off the ground. Cursed the walker, gave his forearm – bite and all – one last, long glance before awkwardly stumbling away.

He was barely five minutes into his so-called 'escape' before the dizziness from blood loss overcame him and the younger Dixon was out cold, face planted into the ground once again.

"Stay safe."

* * *

They were sweating.

Salty liquid beaded from every pore on Rick's body. It dripped down his forehead and followed the path of his nose, oozed on his palms. His back was drenched; sweat trickled down his spine in a manner that itched him to no end.

Carol wasn't much better. Her hair was stuck to her ears, legs sticky as they brushed together with walking. Her crowbar was slippery with the watery palms, but she managed her grasp when needed. No way was she losing this weapon, too.

The duo had been searching for Daryl for hours. The sun was at its highest point in the sky, radiating on their skin and into the wilderness around them. Carol estimated they'd been out for at least six hours, following the path Rick had remembered Michonne showing them. She was beginning to think Rick had pulled a wrong turn when Rick tugged her into the brush by her arm. She began to question with a sharp, "What—" but didn't even have the time to utter another word before Rick shushed her.

Rick pointed to his left and up a little. Carol's eyes took a minute to focus and she wiped the trickle of sweat on her eyelids. A large barrier was set up about thirty feet in front of them; bags of sand and even some military vehicles were banked to form the barricade. There were no guards. Carol couldn't shake the feeling that something was eerily wrong until she noticed it.

There was a huge hole in the side of the barrier.

It was too silent.

Rick ascended first, shuffling from tree to tree until he finally made it to the wall. Peeked in, poised to strike. He motioned for Carol to come after a minute of clearing; she followed the same path as him and strode into the town of Woodbury. The first street was empty. Void of any human silhouettes—dead or alive. Carol's grip tightened on her crowbar.

"I'm assuming it wasn't like this a few nights ago." A statement.

"Guards were patrolling the wall; people – normal citizens – were socializing and… living. But I don't see any livin' people," Rick replied, his voice quiet. Something was off. Something was completely wrong. Even after he'd caused the riot, they would've been able to restore monarchy, right?

He was totally mistaken.

Windows were shattered, houses dotted with bullet holes. A baby stroller was carelessly tossed on its side. Blood stains littered the street.

Carol avoided the stroller.

"Looks like the Governor upgraded."

"What do you mean?" Carol pressed, eyes peeled for any signs of movement. They were nearing an open field of land.

"He turned on his own people."

They were at the field. Carol frowned. Arena was a better-suiting name. Bleachers were lined around it, blood fried on the pavement.

Bodies lay slouched on the ground. Two young men, both rotting horribly under the bright sun's gaze. Carol cringed at the bullet holes blown into their faces. One was barely recognizable. The bullet had obliterated his face, gashing exit wound near his occipital bone. Rick inhaled and exhaled, hands raising to wipe the sweat off his face. Both men carried guns in their holsters, one even open, as if he were ready to react but just wasn't allowed enough time.

They left the arena, continuing their goal of finding Daryl. Even Carol was beginning to believe it would become unsuccessful. Turn after turn; more bodies clustered onto the road. Heads lolled back against brick walls, shattered shards of glass speckled into old flesh. It wasn't until they passed another grouping of bodies that Carol saw.

They had bite marks.

"Rick," she whispered, tapping his shoulder and pointing downward. "These people weren't shot. Well, they were, but—but look. They have bite wounds." So far, the only dead to have weapons were the two men they saw in the arena. All the other citizens were helpless, only defended by their ability to run. Their established 'government' had turned against them.

Democracies don't work surrounded by absolutism.

Rick squinted his eyes down the alleyway. A buzz—a hymn, almost—echoed off the walls. Walkers spilled from around the corner. Rick and Carol ran, but it was too late; they were spotted.

"Shit," Rick cursed, sprinting in the opposite direction they came from. The mass of walkers were pursuing their next meal, stumbling as fast as their feet would take them down the corridor. The two ran in the streets, through the abandoned town. There were too many to take out solely by close contact, especially between only the two of them.

They found their way through the opening they came in way before the walkers started their march through the arena. Rick and Carol paused, catching their breath. Exhaustion weakened Carol's legs and she reached out to take a sip from their near empty water bottle.

A moan from behind them alerted the two. Carol dropped the water on the ground, warm liquid spilling onto the dirt and licking at her feet. Her fist clenched around her crowbar as she turned around.

Rick had only seen this man twice in his life but he was one hundred percent positive he knew who it was. The high cheekbones, cadet blue eyes. Even through the rotten smell and pale skin, Rick could tell.

The man he'd handcuffed on the roof so many months ago.

The man who he went back for.

Daryl's brother.

Merle Dixon.

Bugs had accumulated at his stab wound, gnawing on the corroded flesh. Flies buzzed around his knife, attracted to the smell of the fried blood. Rick wielded his axe, but Carol had beaten him to the punch. She had her crowbar over her head and down on Merle's before Rick had a chance to raise his own weapon. Merle slouched on the ground with a distasteful grunt and sickening crunch through his skull.

Well, they'd found Merle.

"We need to find Daryl," was all Carol said. Her eyes were anguished. She was already off, wiping the blood onto her pants. Some had splattered onto her shirt. "He has to be here somewhere, right?"

Rick didn't nod. He just followed.

Carol's breathing was frantic by now—Daryl hadn't found Merle. All attachment aside, Daryl would have put down his brother for health issues. She was stumbling over rocks, through dips in the ground, shoving tree branches out of her way. She ignored the scratches that scraped her arms.

"Carol, stop. Don't panic—it'll just make you lose more—" Rick didn't have time to finish. Carol had stopped in her tracks abruptly and turned to look at him. Her big blue eyes were wide, watery.

"Does this not bother you at all?" Her voice was condescending. She progressed in her path through the forest, but didn't stop talking. "We just found _Merle Dixon_ dead. Merle. And Daryl could be out here anywhere; if he were heading back to the prison, he would have done it before we left. We didn't even stay to see if he was at Woodbury!" Carol ran a hand over her face and blinked many times. She turned her head to Rick, continuing to walk. Her eyes were swimming with tears.

"Is this just what you do, Rick? Tear people away from their loved ones?" He kept quiet, head cocking to the side. Tongue flicked over salty lips. "Before they're able to see if they're alive or not? You know what happened to your family. You _know _Lori's dead and Carl's alive." Rick began to speak, shaking his head and trying to reduce the animosity and hurt boiling in his stomach.

"I didn't _know _if Sophia was alive or not. Daryl doesn't _know _that Merle's dead. Heck, Merle didn't even know Daryl was alive! I don't _know _if Dar—"

She tripped.

Rick, although heated with anger, rushed forward to help her. Carol's outburst was surprising; she'd usually kept her calm, emotion shown through her eyes rather than words. But she couldn't take it anymore. He bent down next to her, putting forth a hand to help her up.

"—rol?" It was slurred. It was gruff. And it was most certainly not Carol speaking.

Carol froze in her position – an attempt to push herself up from the ground despite her acrimony – and her eyebrows furrowed. She looked to her right and immediately all the anger dissipated from her expression. Rick followed her line of sight.

There, sprawled on the side of the side of the path, was Daryl Dixon. He was grimy, sweaty and covered in blood. His eyes were barely focused, and Rick nearly choked on his spit when he saw the blood soaked rag covering Daryl's stump of an arm. "Holy shit," sounded appropriate.

Carol immediately crawled over to him, eyes wide with terror. Her fingers moved all across his body, searching for bite marks or any other injury. Rick stood up and sat on his knees next to the two, fixated on Daryl. Carol moved from body part to body part; it was when she got to his arm that she paused and her own hand went to cover her mouth.

Inside, a voice was telling her to persevere. Don't cry; don't let your emotions show.

Outside, the tears dropped. They slid down her cheeks, absorbing all the sweat that had previously settled.

"…Daryl?"

Rick was quiet, examining Daryl's injury. Judging by his disorientation and pool of blood under his… stump, he'd been here awhile and had lost a bunch of blood.

"Daryl. Daryl! You're al—your… arm? What happened? How did you…" She saw her knife jutting out from his pocket. It was covered with blood and other mangled bits of flesh. "Oh, God, no…" There was only one logical reason for cutting off his forearm. Both Rick and Carol knew it.

They were proved right when Daryl croaked out, "Bite." He blinked again. All he could see were silhouettes of the two. Carol's voice and Rick's drawl were distinguishable even without perfect vision. His throat burned, his arm seared, but Daryl forced himself to talk. "Bitten… cut off. Ain't no sonna… bitch gonna kill me." His words were throaty.

Carol wished she hadn't dropped the water.

Her arms fell to her sides as she remembered the whole reason Daryl came out in the woods in the first place. She remembered the conversation they'd had the night he returned, the pain in his eyes, and she froze. She caught herself asking why, but she already knew the answer.

"Merle."

Carol couldn't find the heart to tell him his brother was dead.

Rick watched on. He didn't find it was his duty to tell Daryl the news. They were friends, close friends, really, but Carol obviously had something that Rick didn't have with Daryl.

She changed the subject. "We can get you back to the prison. It's only—it's only a few miles from here." It was a blatant lie, and everybody knew it. "Hershel can look at your arm, patch you up nicely, not with that stupid rag. And then you'll be fine. You'll be fine," Carol's voice was high, panicked. A strained smile was plastered to her face; it wasn't anything like her natural, radiant grin.

"Rick and I, we can—we can carry you back. It won't take that long. We can… we can transfuse blood for your loss, or something! I'll even give you mine. Anything, we can try it, but we have to get back to the prison, Daryl." Carol looked at Rick. "We can carry him. He's not that heavy."

Rick felt his heart drop to his stomach at Carol's face. Her eyes carried so much emotion. "We can try, Carol, but—"

"Don't." It was Daryl this time, piping up from his positioning on the ground. His voice had never sounded so weak and, even basking in the sun, he was incredibly pale. "My fault. Ain't burdening ya'll." Daryl exhaled and shot a look down at his arm. "Damn thing. Ain't helpin' me. Hurts like fuck."

Carol didn't even flinch at the slew of cursing. Her gaze moved back from Rick to Daryl. Her hands were shaking. "Daryl, don't be—we can _help_, don't you understand?"

"Carol, it's at least a five hour walk back to the prison, even without Daryl…" Rick said quietly. His eyes flickered to Daryl's face. Searched his eyes. He was losing it again.

"We can…"

Daryl used the rest of his subdued strength to shake his head. It felt like someone was hammering an axe into his brain. "Carol," he exhaled.

Her eyes never left his.

"Thanks…" Daryl's eyes were slowly drifting shut. "…for listenin'." His voice gave out. Another breath felt like fire. The world around him was slowly blurring, Carol's shadow blending into the trees behind her. Daryl's eyes closed.

Carol clamped her hand over her mouth to prevent any noise from escaping. She tried to hold back choked sobs but failed miserably. Rick rubbed small circles into the small of her back. Carol shook her head, sniffled. Her eyes were red, blue crystal clear around the pink-tinted whites. They sat in silence. Carol took her knife from Daryl's pocket, held it in hands. They were trembling. She could barely hold the knife straight before settling it into his lap.

"You're welcome." A tear fell. They left the site, a quivering Carol bundled up against Rick's side. She didn't yell at him anymore.

The next day, a Cherokee rose blossomed right at Daryl Dixon's feet.

* * *

_Ah, apocalyptic cheesiness. Wonderful._

_Anyways, if you read this, thank you very much! I'm actually working on another story at the moment; currently untitled, but it's Carol's life pre-apocalypse with Sophia and Ed, leading up to the events in the flashback during Chupacabra. _


End file.
